Not Alone Now My Love Is Near Me
by LittlePoppett
Summary: Spoilers for 3x05. Still very much a S/B story. Depending on how this goes down it may or may become more than a one-shot. Set during/after 3x05. I hope you enjoy it. LP. x
1. Not Alone

And I am not alone when my love is near me...

The endless reassurance from her sisters did nothing to temper his feelings, his guilt that she was no longer on this earth because of _him_. She was dead because of him. Because of the baby he had put inside her. Had she never met him, never married him, never shared those nights together naked skin pressing against naked skin, she would still be alive. Still be breathing. Still brightening the room with her smile.

Instead she was lying on her bed, sheets damp with her sweat and stained with her blood, her skin cold and pallid, eye lids closed shut. The thought, no, the knowledge that he was the reason would not leave him and it had tormented him endlessly through that night, that horrible painful night spent by her bedside, studying her face, desperately wanting to commit every bit of it to memory. He longed to hear her voice say his name, wake from her sleep and wish him a good morning, tell him she loved him. He wished now that he had told her that more, he hadn't said it enough, especially not in recent months. But he doubted he would feel any amount would ever have been enough.

He hears the baby in the next room, her voice can be heard, even if her Mother's can't. He took her hand, not feeling the difference between warm skin and the cool metal of her wedding band any longer; it was all the same now. He brought her hand to his face, just as he had done the night before, he kissed the back of her hand – longing, almost willing the skin to warm beneath his lips, for her eyes to flicker open and her mouth to form the smile he loved so much.

Loved. Already he was thinking of her as something belonging to the past. That thought tore at his chest, rubbing salt into the wound that already split his heart.

He could hear the nurse in the next room, not her words but her voice, calming and soothing and the baby fell silent. He knelt at her bedside, as he had done just a few hours before, as she had slipped away from him, and he sobbed into her hand.

"It ought to be you, my darling. It ought to be you who soothes her, you cared for her and fed her and kept her safe for all those months. It ought to be you here…I'm so sorry, my love." A cry escaped his throat, blocked his words for a while. It hurt him to know that she would never embark on the adventure she had been so excited to begin, the adventure into motherhood, caring for the child which had been so present to her, resting in her belly, even when it was still an abstract thought to him. And now another woman was that baby's lifeline. A woman they didn't know. A woman who hadn't carried her nor wondered whose likeness she would be. Not the woman whose face, the moment he finally felt the baby in her womb, he would never forget – so excited that finally she could share something more of the little being she already knew so intimately with another. "I'm so sorry, to you both. For all the wonderful things you will never know of each other."

The door opened slightly and suddenly Mary was behind him, a hand on his shoulder – he wondered how many times she had reached out to touch him before, had she ever when she wasn't seeking assistance in or out of a car?

"She looks so peaceful now." Her voice was soft, barely audible.

"Like she's sleeping." His voice cracked and Mary nodded.

"Just like she is sleeping."

They stayed like that a while, Sybil's hand pressed to his face and Mary's resting on his shoulder – a reminder that she was there, he was not alone in this, no matter how lonely he felt.

He broke down, tears streaming from his eyes and sobs wracking his chest and shoulders. She moved him so he was sat on the bed; his fingers still entwined with Sybil's, his eyes still on her face.

Had he known this would be the trade in the end, the outcome of his years waiting for her, loving her with no guarantee of a future, would he still have been as bold as he had been in York, in the early days of the war when the world felt as if it was crumbling around them?

"It's all my fault." He gasped it more than he spoke it, his lungs desperate for air. "If she'd never known me…" Mary knelt in front of him, taking his free hand in hers. "If I'd never taken her away from here," he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, attempting to clear his throat, needing to say these words to somebody, to profess the guilt that bore into his very core, "If we'd never married…"

For the first time his eyes strayed from Sybil and met Mary's, shining with tears. "She would not have had the year of happiness you gave her. Because she was Tom; _you_ made her so incredibly happy. More than we could ever have done. You gave her such joy even before you were husband and wife. And that baby gave her such joy without it even being here. The letters she wrote, oh Tom, it was palpable, you could feel her happiness coming off the page." She wiped a tear from her face and took a breath. "Not a single ounce of guilt lies with you. With you or that little one. We will never make either of you feel as if it does and you must promise me that you won't either. You won't blame the baby and you won't blame yourself, because between the two of you, you gave her the greatest months of her life. You let her live."

**So, eerily I wrote some of this as part of a non-fanfic piece I am working on a good few weeks ago. It doesn't really fit in with that piece but suddenly it does with Downton. I feel a bit less heartbroken after writing it! There may be more, so it is not a one shot for now. I hope you like it, I honestly do. **

**A still very sad LP. x**


	2. Until It's Time to Go

**I was overwhelmed with the wonderful comments on the first chapter of this. I hope you enjoy this second one as much. Thank you to everyone who read it, and also to those who shared their thoughts through reviews or favourites or alerts. **

**I suppose in my head the last chapter happened during 3x05, just prior to the scene in which Mary and Edith said their goodbyes to Sybil, it explains why Mary was already in the room. From now on it takes place after 3x05. **

...I know it will be so until it's time to go...

Edith had found him stood at the window, the baby in his arms, gazing blankly out at the view. He was a broken man, even in the way he stood there, his back to her, she could see it. The noise of the door clicking shut behind her made him turn his head, revealed to her the tracks the tears had left on his cheeks.

"They've taken her." His voice shook; his eyes were glassy with tears and his lip turned down as a new wave of emotion took over him. Grief exuded from his every pore. She approached him slowly, her own throat growing tight as tears threatened. "Taken her away," he gasped the final words more than he spoke them and he turned into her, his forehead dropping on to her shoulder. She was shocked initially, her hands remained suspended in the air around him before she too gave in to her mourning and rubbed at his back like a mother soothing an upset child. "Taken her away from me."

"I know, I know." The baby began to fuss, disturbed by the sudden movement and noise around her, "But they had to. They had to take her. They will take care of her."

He pulled away from her slowly, gasping for his breath, nodding at her statement. His eyes rested briefly on the baby, who was beginning to cry, gentle mewing that sounded more like a kitten than a child. They shot up to Edith, filled with a look of sheer panic. "What am I going to do?" The baby fought to free herself from the blanket, writhing against her father's grip. "How am I ever going to do this without her? I never thought –" his breathing became sharper, heavier through his tears, "I never banked on having to do this without her."

The realization had hit him as he watched the car drive away, taking his wife's body away from the house, that not only did he have to deal with losing her, with his own grief, but the child next door. The child they had imagined raising together, spent many evenings and early mornings talking in hushed, sleepy tones about everything they wanted to do, everything they wanted for their child. And now there was no they. Only him. And he couldn't face it.

"I can't. Oh god I can't." He felt his knees buckle slightly and held the baby, now red in the face and bawling, out to Edith. "Take her. Please take her. I can't, I can't do it."

Edith fumbled with the baby slightly, pulling her into her chest and doing her best to wrap her in the blankets once more. He backed away from her, his face contorted with tears, hands pulling at his hair. He studied Edith and the baby she held to her chest as he fought the tears for breath. He sat on the edge of the bed, and brushed his hands over the sheets that less that an hour before had held her body.

"What am I supposed to do without her?" He looked up at Edith, appealing for words. Anything to comfort him, a salve to the pain, something to clear the fog that grief had left in his mind.

She approached him gently, cautiously and sat on the bed next to him, rubbing at the baby's back, soothing the last gasping cries to silence. She found her voice, but it cracked as she spoke, a tear broke the damn, spilling onto her face. "I know it may not seem like much of a comfort, but we are here. You have us. Both of you do."

He nodded and lowered his gaze to look at the baby. "How will I do it? Will I ever be able to look at her and not see the cost? Not see the loss?" Edith swallowed, not sure what to say, how to remedy this. He turned his head away, looking at the bed again and she knew he was remembering, replaying the night and day that had just past. He was gone for now, he needed to be left with his thoughts. They sat in silence for a while, both quietly allowing the grief to submerge them again. He shut his eyes, his words tumbled out as if he had been fighting whether they should be spoken. "I cannot even look at her now without it hurting. I can't…I just can't…" His voice tailed off to a whisper.

She gasped, surprising herself, realizing the enormity of what he was admitting. "I'll take her next door for now, Mama was asking to see her." It was a lie, but it at least conveniently disguised the reality. She rose slowly, squeezing his hand as she did. He didn't look up.

"She wanted it to sound Irish." His words stopped Edith in her tracks, the baby nestled against her. "The baby. The name." A smile lingered on his lips, the ghost of a fond memory and more tears spilled from his eyes, still focused on the empty bed. "I remember she said that not long after she found out, and I laughed. I asked her if that was what all of this was about, she picked me because she liked the way Irish names sounded." The baby shifted in Edith's arms and she watched her tiny eyelids flicker open briefly before sleep overcame her again and she resubmitted to her slumber. "But nothing seems right now, I can't remember what she wanted. I've been trying so hard to remember what she wanted and I just can't." He looked down at his hands, wound his fingers rounds one another. "If I can't even remember that, how will I ever do justice to what she wanted in everything else? How will I be enough without her?"

**I'm not anywhere near as happy with this as I would like to but a third chapter is written and should be up tomorrow and it needed something in between. Sorry this is still so melancholy. Thank you again everyone. LP. x**


	3. Storms in Winter and Birds in Spring

…so come the storms of winter and then the birds in spring again…

The gravestone was new, the letters spelling out her name still sharp in the stone, the edges still crisp, yet to be worn by weather. Her name entwined with his. It had always made him smile before, to see it written down. 'Sybil Branson'. The sign that they had, together, won the battle for one another's love. But seeing it, together with her title, in cold, hard stone made his stomach clench. He reached out and traced the letters with the fingers of one hand, his other arm filled with the baby, bundled in blankets. Another Sybil Branson, a new reason to see that name and smile.

"I'm not sure they wanted me to bring her here," Tears were already choking his words, "but I wanted her to know where you are my love, where her Ma will always be should she need you."

It was cold, surprisingly so for late summer and a wind whipped round the gravestones. Appropriate really, a mirror of the darkness that still hung around the house, even on the brightest of mornings. He had wrapped her up tightly, as he remembered his mother doing with his younger siblings, blankets swathing all but her little face and a few curls of dark hair.

"Someone said to your Ma, a passing comment really, at the funeral," He cleared his throat, blinking away tears, "your funeral, of what a waste it had been. You being taken from us so soon, too soon, my darling. A waste of a life. And her reply to him, I was so glad to hear her reply to him. She told him that she did not think of it as a waste, she would miss you forever and always be heartbroken, but she could not think of your life as a waste. That you had achieved so many wonderful things in your life, that you had been such a wonderful person, you touched so many lives," a tear silently ran down his cheek, he wiped it away with the back of his hand and settled his palm over the baby, her warmth radiating into his fingers – her solidity was a comfort, "and you had left us with a wonderful reminder of you. A piece of you that we would take such joy from, even if you couldn't be here yourself." He looked down into his daughter's face, serene in sleep, dark lashes brushing her cheeks. His voice faltered, tears filling his eyes again. "She was right. And I felt so guilty for the way I had been. For not being able to face her. She was a part of you to be cherished, not merely a noise in the next room in the middle of the night, she shouldn't be a reminder of the end of your life, that you died bringing her to us – we should never think of her like that. She should be something to remember how wonderful you were and also something quite separate, a new life full of possibilities that shouldn't already be tarred with sadness before it has really begun."

His eyes fell to the line of words carved into the stone under the dates which defined Sybil's life; '_She who touched so many hearts and fought for so many more. A much loved and much missed daughter, sister, wife and mother'_. It had been the Dowager Countess who first said it, in the early days after her death and the baby's birth when everything still felt numb to him, his first dinner back downstairs. It had been painful, her absence from the table too obvious, no matter how well they tried to disguise it. Violet announced that she had ordered the gravestone and told them what ought to be put on it, her eyes remained on Tom the whole time, softer than they had been on him before. He approved it with a nod, the words playing in his mind, glad that her motherhood, however brief it had been in actuality, would be remembered forever.

"Because you will always be her Ma, my love. I will make sure she knows you." He stroked the baby's cheek with the back of his index finger, her skin so soft and smooth against his. "And that is why I want to name her for you. So she carries you with her always and gives us a happy reason to say your name again. She will know how much you already loved her, you have already known her longer than I – known her and loved her before the rest of the world even knew of her existence."

He looked at the baby and a smile came to his face, the beginning of a laugh breaking through his tears. "She will be a trailblazer, a whirlwind to keep the world on its toes. She will know Ireland my love, one day she will and she will know here, know the people here and there who already hold so much love for her. I will give her the life we so desperately wanted for her. She will be her own woman, just like her Ma."

He knelt in front of the headstone, placed a kiss on the tips of his fingers and pressed them to her name. He bowed his head then and touched his lips to the baby's forehead, taking in her warmth and her smell, already overwhelmed by the love he felt for her. The little being in his arms a gift from his wife that would last forever – a piece of her he would keep close to his heart for the rest of his days.

He had waited those years for their time together, their year as husband and wife; he could wait a few more to be with her again, reunited for the rest of eternity.

**Another subdued chapter (it seems I like the tormented, emotional inner-dialogue?), but I hope that there was some hint of things getting better. I want this story to progress as something of his 'recovery', to show that Tom can still have a wonderful life with his daughter and still feel Sybil's death and carry her with him. So although this is all still rather sad now, I intend to make things more optimistic soon! **

**Thank you all for your continued reading! LP. x**


	4. No fear of time

…I have no fear of time…

He had put it off for as long as he could, but that morning Anna had come in to pack away the clothes of Sybil's that still hung in the wardrobe. The scent of her still danced around the fabric, her perfume and her warmth and the smell of her skin. He had opened the doors to the wardrobe numerous times since her death, ran his fingers along the fabrics, so carefully hung side by side and allowed the smell, her smell to embrace him as tears ran down his face.

He was stood there that morning, taking it in for the last time, the sleeping baby in his arms, one of her tiny hands clasped around the chain of his pocket watch. They had barely been apart since the day of Sybil's funeral. Tom sought comfort in the baby's presence, her solidity, the connection she formed with her mother – the curve of her cheek, the blue of her eyes. The baby would rarely settle for anyone else now, even the nursemaid who promised the tiny infant a full belly had fallen out of the little one's favour. Cora had consulted Clarkson for alternatives after almost a fortnight of the baby screaming for her father in the middle of the night, needing him to settle her after a feed. He had recommended alternatives, bottles were bought, the nursemaid dismissed and, much to Robert's dislike, the baby's cradle was put in his bedroom. Even in the middle of the night he was glad that he no longer had to hand the baby over to the nursemaid, a woman he had almost irrationally developed a dislike for – to him she was an almost permanent reminder that Sybil ought to be with him, with them. She ought to be living and seeing her little girl grow up. They were a unit now, Tom and his daughter and he was glad of his mother-in-law's support in him being allowed to bring her up the way he wanted, the way he knew. No nursemaids and being shut up in a nursery through the day and night away from the rest of the family. Cora was insistent that this little girl would know her family loved her – she would see and feel their affection in a way she feared her own daughters had not, she should not feel that there was someone missing and most importantly she would know that her Mama loves her so deeply from her place up in heaven.

Anna's quiet knock brought him out of his thoughts; he rose and opened the door to her. She smiled at him first and then let her eyes drop to the baby cradled against his chest.

"Good morning." She had a bundle of paper and a ball of ribbon pressed against her chest, a sympathetic look on her face.

"Morning Anna." They went back into the room and he settled on the edge of the bed, eyes on the wardrobe in the corner, its doors still thrown open.

He was torn; he knew this would hurt, to watch as Anna packed away the dresses his wife had cried in, laughed in, been so alive in, but it was an odd fascination, he felt like he needed to see it. He stroked the downy curls on the top of the baby's head as Anna lay a pile of tissue paper beside him on the bed. She stopped before him, her eyes on the baby.

"She looks happy this morning…"

He interrupted her, looking up at her as she spoke. "More so than last night, I'm sorry, did she have the whole house awake?"

Anna shook her head gently, "Oh, don't worry about it. Sometimes they just don't settle – we all understand." He smiled dimly at the sympathetic look Anna gave him. He felt a sudden affinity to the woman who had always been so kind to him, even when she hadn't approved.

"I think she knows she isn't here, Anna. Knows her Ma is missing."

Anna reached out and stroked the baby's cheek with one finger; Tom pushed the paper aside, inviting her to sit on the bed next to him. "She's bound to, just as the rest of us do. We all do."

Tom let his gaze fall on his daughter, nodding slightly, accepting Anna's comment. "I think it's her voice. Do you think she could hear her, when she was still pregnant? I can't help but think she can remember it, and now she wonders where it is. Where that beautiful voice has gone. Where her Mother's voice has gone." The baby sighed in her sleep, almost in agreement with her father, and her little mouth turned up at the corners like the beginning of a smile. They both wondered if she was dreaming, dreaming of her mother. "I loved her voice. I always loved her voice." Tom's own voice was barely above a whisper, Anna wasn't sure if his last words had been for her ears or those of his daughter alone.

Anna rose slowly, thinking to leave him in his thoughts, his eyes on the baby while she quietly completed her task without his noticing. But she felt his gaze on her back as she approached the wardrobe, its doors already thrown open.

Years in uniform had left him without memories being so fondly entwined with his own clothes, except for his two suits, his night clothes, that darn tuxedo he had been worn down into wearing at Downton, all of his memories with Sybil lie with the green uniform that became so synonymous with his identity over the years that it even began to feel a part of him to him, no matter how much he despised it. But Sybil's clothes, each and every dress Anna pulled out and carefully folded in tissue paper and tied with ribbon, every one had a memory attached to it.

The more recent dresses, the ones she had hastily packed into the cases she had brought from Ireland, alone on that journey – a fact that still stabbed at his stomach, how had he left her all alone, no matter what they had agreed, if he had know what was to come just a few weeks later he wonders if he would have done the same – are packed first. All loose at the waist and chest, excitedly bought in the New Year with the money her mother had sent as a Christmas gift, knowing they would have to accommodate the child growing in her belly. He had insisted she spend the money on herself, they had needed other things really, to make up the shortfall on the rent one week for coal another, but he wanted to see the smile that a new dress, something frivolous put on her face again after months of making carefully considered and truly practical purchases. She had stood in the parlour spinning around in the two dresses, laughing as the skirts flared out around her. Laughing for the first time in what felt like weeks he remembered, the nausea was finally beginning to slacken its grip, relieving her of the insatiable tiredness. His mother had been there, the news that they were to make her a grandmother again fresh in her mind and they had both watched her, entranced. The fabric wasn't as fine as the clothes she was used to, even the less showy clothes she had brought with her to Ireland, but it didn't seem to matter. Her smile more than made up for it.

That night as he was helping her to wash her hair, pouring jugs of warm water over her head as she bent over the sink, she told him she wanted to cut it. Something new to go with her dresses and her long hair was such a hassle, it's weight pulled on her scalp through days bundled up under her cap at work. It was never down, so what was the point? He knew she was right, but he had been truly sad as he stood behind her, scissors in hand as she sat on one of the hard chairs at the table, her curls tumbling down her back, still slightly damp. The curls he loved, the curls he had marveled at on their first night as man and wife, spread over the pillow like a halo, resting on the bare skin of her shoulders and chest, moving with her breathing. He still marveled at them, every night they lay in bed together and end of her plait tickled at his arms. She had plaited it one last time and told him where to cut, revealing a Sybil who seemed so much older, so much more suited to her new life. He had carefully tied the plait in ribbon, wrapped it in paper and tucked it away in a box – not quite as able to let go of those tresses, a symbol of their friendship, courtship and early marriage, as she was.

Months later he had asked his mother to copy the pattern; he would pay for some fabric – something for her to wear when they returned to Downton for Mary's wedding, something to lift her spirits. Barely a week later Mrs Branson had wordlessly handed over a parcel as they left her house following Sunday dinner. She had insisted on it being a gift. Sybil's eyes had lit up that evening as she pulled the dress, a heavy grey-purple velvet he recognized as something his mother had worn when he was a child, the dress she had pulled out at every christening and first communion, confirmation and wedding. She had changed it for her; fit it to Sybil and the fashions of the time. He could have cried tears over his mother's generosity. Sybil had done.

Anna folded the velvet carefully in tissue and Tom held out a hand and stroked the soft fabric, worn by two of the most wonderful women he had ever known.

"This was my Ma's," he looked up at Anna, "Well, a version of it was. She made it just before we came back for Mary's wedding. She wanted Sybil to feel beautiful in something. To show her off I suppose, that her life hadn't changed her beauty…"

He trailed off and Anna watched as he played with the detail around the neckline, "Do you want me to keep this one out?"

He shook his head and pulled his hand back in to him, placing it on the bundle of blankets in his arms, feeling the rise and fall of the baby's breathing. "No, no. Lady Grantham is right. I'd like them to be kept safe, I'd like the baby to have something like this, something she can hold to remember her by. To know her by. " Anna nodded, and wrapped the dress carefully taking special care to fold and smooth the sleeves, to secure it with a neat bow in the ribbon. She could see the memories dancing in his mind, both filling him with comfort and reopening the wound left by his grief, with every item she pulled from the wardrobe.

Then it was the purple coat with the wide collar like a sailor's uniform and the hat, a gift to her from Mary, bought in Dublin when they were in Ireland for the wedding. Mere weeks ago he had clutched at them, relieved to have her back in his arms, free from what he had thought then to be the only things in the world that could threaten her. Her nightdresses, mostly thick cotton to keep her warm despite the damp chill which had a tendency to creep under the eiderdown on the bed in Dublin, then the thinner ones – the ones she had worn most recently, the ones that had been stretched taut under his hand as he felt their child move in her stomach, sending ripples through her skin.

The Sybil of the last year was packed away, the clothes of her marriage safely tucked into trunks. Anna sprayed the tissue with the perfume that still sat on the dressing table, "Her scent will last longer that way." He had nodded at that, relieved she understood what he needed, what he wanted.

The clothes she pulled from the wardrobe next hadn't made the journey over to Ireland with them, they were showy clothes, ornate and intricate for occasions, the like of which only ever occurred within the grandeur of Downton. He laughed slightly to himself, the occasions were usually only dinner. He wonders what his Ma would have made of it if they had arrived on his doorstep for lunch on a Sunday dressed as the Grantham's expected ones dinner guests to be dressed. These dresses were Sybil before she knew what her life was to be, while she was still fighting for a life of meaning, a life which she had say over. As she had been when he first loved her and she first loved him and they were both involved in the slightly awkward dance of a sort-of courtship.

The black dress with the gold roses took him to the first time she had been in her finery after the war, a stark contrast to the starched cotton of her nurse's uniform. She'd made his dreams come true in this dress; told him she loved him, promised a future, told the world what their life together was to be. Their first kiss. The feeling of her body against his, their breathing heightened, her lips against his. He closed his eyes, savouring the memory. She'd worn it again, let out to accommodate their child and though it had been at the disastrous dinner in the days before Mary's wedding it had seemed fitting to him – this dress had seen them through, from the very beginning.

They overwhelmed him then, the memories that bombarded him. The dress with the gold bodice – the evening she had filled his heart with hope, happiness really. A purple skirt – a first illicit touch. More overcoats – carrying her against him from the count, her head limp against his chest; leaving her in York fearing she was about to crush his heart; the very first time he had laid eyes on her and liked her from the minute he heard her voice, her disparaging comments on the dressmaker. Travelling clothes – the evening in the inn, first filled with anticipation, excitement, her presence and then lonliness, an onvious emptiness, thoughts of their failed elopement. A summer dress, light and flowing and airy – her hand for the first time in his.

A flash of blue caught his eyes then, bright blue, periwinkle. The blue dress, the one that ended in a pair of pantaloons rather than a skirt – her smile, her defiance in the face of her family's shock, the sun streaming through the window, stolen glimpses of her through a window. The swelling in his chest, the sowing of a seed, of the love that was still with him.

A gasp catches in his throat and he speaks for the first time in a while, his voice cracking. "The moment I fell for her, she was wearing that." He rose to his feet, "It made me smile. I felt I knew what she was like then – we had barely spoken but I felt I knew her." He reached Anna at the wardrobe, her hand ghosting the chiffon, sunlight playing on the embroidery along the bust as it had done all those years ago. "May I?" He gestures at the dress; Anna nods and allows him to place the baby in her arms. The infant curls herself into her, one splayed starfish hand on Anna's chest.

"She's beautiful." Anna glances briefly up at Tom, the blue material now draped over his arm; his eyes lift to look at them both. "I hadn't really gotten a chance to look at her before, see her pretty face."

He nodded, a fond smile playing on his lips as his eyes settled on his daughter. "I know they say it is too early to say who she will look like, that she will change so much, but I really do think…" he trailed off. "Part of me is glad, but I wonder if it will break my heart some days. Seeing so much of Sybil in her. Seeing any of Sybil in her."

"It will be hard at times Mr Branson," he looked at her, the look on his face begging her to put an end to the formality. Only a little over a year ago after all they had been sharing dinner in the servant's quarters. "Tom. It will be hard at times, when it catches you off hand – but let it remind you that she is still here with you. Her spirit always will be; in this house, with you, in Ireland, in this little girl."

"Thank you Anna. Thank you for your words today. But thank you too for never being disparaging of us, as some of the others were. It doesn't matter whether you felt it or not, you never showed it. You were kind to us both, no matter what."

"You never did anything wrong," she smiled and placed an hand on his sleeve, "There are far worse things a person can do than fall in love, to follow their heart, no matter where it takes them. These last few years have taught me that at least." They smiled at one another, pausing, both lost in their own thoughts. It was the baby shifting in her blankets against Anna that brought her back into the present, the job still half finished. "We best get on, they'll be wondering where I have got to. But Tom, remember that you _do_ have friends amongst us downstairs, don't let a minority think you do not."

Tom nodded his thanks, a wordless show of appreciation to the woman before him. He made his way to the bed, the swathes of blue fabric cradled in his arms and wrapped them, slowly and carefully in the tissue. His hands lingered over the embellished headpiece, tracing the patterns with his fingertips. "I think I'd like to keep this out, a little piece of that moment I can see everyday, to remind me."

Anna nodded and lay the baby back in Tom's arms. She took the headpiece and lay it on the dressing table, smoothing the ribbon around the mirror and watching the sunlight dance on the walls and ceiling as it hit the beads that covered it. She turned back to Tom, "This way she fills the whole room with light."

It brought a smile to his face, the thought, Sybil's ability to fill a room with joy and light even in death, it fit so perfectly.

**I apologise for the self indulgence here, the clothes are gorgeous on this show and in real life I have a terrible habit of associating clothes with memories – but I think sometimes it is a lovely way of remembering things, especially when they hold someone's smell in a way just smelling their perfume alone does not. On a less airy-fairy note, my tenses switch terribly throughout – please forgive me that! I hope you can over look the blaring grammatical errors and enjoy the story! I wanted Tom to find a friend in Anna. Thank you for reading, let me know what you think. LP. x**


	5. Who Knows How My Love Grows

... for who knows how my love grows…

Sometimes, normally when he was on the edge of sleep at either end of the day he found himself wondering if it had all been some sort of wonderful dream – the year in Dublin, the latter part of 1919 and 1920 when it had just been them living a normal life; waking up curled around one another, kissing each other goodbye, discovering one another truly, fumbling over the stove, his hand on her back as they waited on his mother's doorstep, watching her grow with their child. He wondered if suddenly he would be shaken from his sleep and it would be 1917 again, he'd be in the chauffeur's cottage, ruminating over how vivid it had seemed, how real it had all felt.

It had been so brief, the time they had _together_. He had loved her so deeply for so long – it could be so easy for it to be merely an extension of that, his imagination running away with him, painting a picture of the life he wanted with her. And then Sybbie would start her chatter, tucked away in her cradle and suddenly it would dawn on him just how real it had been. All of it; their hands clasped together as they boarded the boat - the promise of a life together waiting on the other side of the sea, the glow of her cheeks as they stood at the front of the church, the wave of her hair down her naked back on that first morning they woke as man and wife, the excited nervousness on her face when she told him they were to have a baby.

Then he would remember her lying on her bed, here at Downton, her skin pallid and cold – and it hit him again, with full force, that she was gone. He mourned her every morning that he woke, privately and torturously. He would gather the baby against him, watching as she fully woke, babbling to him, her face breaking out into a smile. She changed a little everyday and he marveled at it, the new things she could do, how expressive she was becoming and ultimately, just how much like her mother she was. And then somehow, in the way only she could, his daughter, comforted him – it had been real, they had been so content to be together even when it was hard, loved each other endlessly even on the days they didn't particularly _like_ one another, longed for one another in the best and worst of moments. It was that he had to remember over the pain of losing her, he had to cherish the time they had shared and thanks to the little girl cradled against him and the place Sybil would forever occupy in his heart, the months of his life he would never forget.

**This wasn't particularly thought out, I wrote it this morning without really thinking about it and I don't know how it truly fits with the rest of this story, but I thought I wanted to share it even if it is not my best! Not really edited either so there could be some dodgy moments! Updates of other stories are on the way and a little somethin' somethin' for Christmas. Let me know your thoughts, good or bad. LP. x**


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